Cake and Journals
by Jimmy Collins
Summary: I honestly do not know how to describe this one.  There is cake and coffee and actually, it's coffee cake, and Ten and Three and the Master.  And... strangeness.  Crack!fic, written for a prompt.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ok, so I lied. I AM going to post today. Anyways, this has a bit of a story to it. A while ago, I found a Cakefic. Aparently, someone found a prompt on a forum I've never been to, and it was that one had to write a story about a naked Ten covered in cake and chained to Three, both captured by the Master. And I'm working on something very depressing right now, and the well of inspiration hath run dry, sort of, so I decided that while I attempt to decide what to do about one very trivial yet important to the overall plot (if x is at y, then where is z when x decides to do w? That sort of thing) point, I'd try my hand at crack!fic. **

**So, we have this. I thought of this after I was punched in the nose today by my brother, while trying to stop the bleeding. True story. Oh, and the chapter is divided up the way it is now because I didn't have time to writte the whole thing. The journal style automatically divides this up, and everything beyond that is just arbitrary. Enjoy!**

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><p><span>March 2<span>

Scribble scribble scribble… I don't know why I am doing this. Actually, I do. It's because Heather Linwood is the most beautiful thing that ever walked this earth, and I found out earlier she likes sensitive guys. I think I'm pretty sensitive, but apparently, the thing that really bumps one's sensitivity rating is carrying around a journal, and scribbling away in it. Apparently, it's not enough to be as cool and as suave and as good-looking as I am. Although, Kyle always makes fun of me when I say I'm good-looking. Anyways, I've got to be smart and intellectual, you know, the sort of guy who can solve third-order differential equations in his head, and then become touchy-feely afterwards with her. And can draw, but I'm never going to be good at that, so I'll just try for the other stuff.

It's a very good way to establish myself as a sensitive person if I'm always scribbling away in this notebook. And then, I can look up shyly at her, and she'll think I'm writing about her. Which, in a way, I am. Just not in the way she thinks.

Anyways, I think she's gotten off the bus, so I can stop scribbling away. I hope this journal writing impresses you, Heather, because it's destroying my reputation with the other guys.

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><p><span>March 3<span>

Right. Heather again. Write, write, write. Oh. God. Maybe she thinks I'm writing poetry in here. Is that what sensitive guys do? And what if she asks to see it? Ok, how about this:

Roses are red – no, that's been done lots.

Well, ok how about this

You are a really pretty girl

And I think that you are the prettiest girl in the world

Your eyes are like stars

You are so pretty I think you maybe came from Mars

Ok there. I wrote you a poem. And I'll try not to let you see it unless it's absolutely necessary. Maybe I'll ask my mate Andy to write a poem for me. For you. Or something. Without him making more fun of me than necessary. Yeah, I'm bad at this.

Ok, it's later and I'm working in the coffee shop and she's here. I gave her her order, and now I've taken my break so I can sit off in one of the booths and write. I hope she appreciates this.

And… now I'm running out of things to write about.

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><p><span>March 4<span>

The more I look into this 'sensitive' thing, the more it seems as if I've got to act like a nerd. I don't want to be a nerd. Nerd is bad for my image.

And, speaking of nerds, what's with all the cosplayers? God, they're everywhere. It's like there's a convention in town or something.

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><p><span>March 5<span>

Heather. Spoke with. Today.

Yes.

It gets better. She came over to my table (CAME OVER TO MY TABLE!) and asked me what I was writing (ASKED ME WHAT I WAS WRITING!). And I was, naturally, quite smooth about the whole thing. I threw in some stuff about how it was personal stuff that I couldn't share with anyone or some such nonsense.

She sort of winked at me. We were really in a great conversation, you know, when one of the cosplayers got a bit strange, and she left before I could ask her to the movies or something. But she winked at me. I think she definitely likes me.

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><p><span>March 6<span>

The fates have turned against me.

It's the only logical explanation.

Anyways, I suppose where it started (though this is sort of not related to 'it') is during my lunch break. Coffee shop, you know? And a man who looked rather like a British office worker started chasing about one of the cosplayers – I think he was an anime general, complete with a blue cape and buttons and those little gold shoulder-brushes that generals wear (what are those called?)

And, boy, was he mad. Er, both of them were. The cosplayer shot death glares over his shoulder at the British man, and the British man was shouting strange things at the cosplayer. And HEATHER WAS RIGHT THERE.

So, that was fine. We laughed at how silly they looked for a time. The point when things really started falling apart was when I'd bought her a cup of coffee, and we were sitting over by the window during my lunch-break, and I was just getting ready to, you know, go for it and ask her out, when the British office-worker runs into the shop. And he starts ordering everybody about like he's in charge or something.

The most embarrassing thing was, we all obeyed. He asked me where the electrical box was, because there was going to be a temporal whatsit thingie happening in a few moments, and he needed to – and that's where I stopped paying attention. Something about timelines crossing, and a tradis. Or a trellis. The man talks like he's stuck on fast-forward.

Well, I freeze up, and he sort of sighs and tells me to hold the door shut. The cosplayers are trying to get in. So, I do. And then Heather perks up and tells him where the electrical box is, and offers to show him.

Well, they go into the basement for a while, while I'm stuck holding the door. There's another British man outside, and he's got a beard-goatee thing, and is wearing all black, and he seems to be in charge of the cosplayers.

Well, behind me, I can hear the British office worker going on and on about how he can't keep something or other at a stable temperature and Heather says they should put it in a plastic bag and dunk it in the water in the coffee-maker. And the man says she's "brilliant" with a long and too-fast-to-catch explanation about specific heat capacities or something, and she perks up. She NEVER does that when _I _compliment her. It was sickening.

At about that point, the cosplayers smash through the window.

"Um, British man," I say, but I don't really need to. He noticed.

Note this well, ye journal. I did not know Heather practised martial arts. Actually, I think she doesn't, but there was a bit of a struggle during which I ran valiantly behind the British man to defend Heather, and she ran off in front of him, NOT cooperating with the plan at all, and hit one of the cosplayers in the head.

It came off. I think I said something along the lines of "You killed him!" I'd say I said that because it's the sort of thing sensitive guys say, but I wasn't really thinking at that point. Which leads me to believe that I _am_ a sensitive guy. Ha! You are _so_ falling for me, Heather.

She tossed the head to me. It was made of metal or something. These were _robot_ cosplayers.

Well, you know how it always is in the films. Girl falls in love with guy, guy falls in love with girl, they defeat some enemy, and in the heat of battle, he asks her out, and, grinning madly, she accepts. They have some flirtatious banter, admit their true feelings afterwards during the date, and, well, Bob's your uncle.

So, I clear my throat and say "Hey, Heather! Would you like-"

But the other British man INTERRUPTS ME!

I mean, come on! The hero of the hour ALWAYS gets the girl. Things don't work like this!

Anyways, rant aside, he says something like "Hello! It's you! I mean, it's really you! With the rubbish beard and all the black and all the minions and everything! Which means, if you are here, that _he_ can't be far behind, and that's a very bad universe toppling thing, but it's really _you!_"

The other British man, the one in all the black, looked a bit confused, but recovered. He said "I have you now, no matter what form you are in. Surrender, Doctor."

Yeah, he said it with a capital letter. Like it was a name, and not just a generic verb. Well, it was a title, I suppose…

Well, the 'doctor' (he didn't look very medical to ME) looked very happy. Far too happy for someone who had just been threatened. "Oh, you have absolutely _no_ idea how much I missed you. And you've got the voice, too!"

Well, he went on like that for a while, and I beckoned Heather over near me, and she came. I tried holding her hand, but she had both of them sort of clasped together, so that was a no-go.

Apparently, the other British man got a bit tired of the Doctor going on the way he was, and sort of cleared his throat. One of the robot cosplayers pointed a weird gun-thing at the Doctor. But that wasn't what shut him up.

What DID shut him up was when the back door opened, and a man with white curly hair and wearing a velvet cape walked in.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is a short chapter to get all my readers through the weekend. Actually, usually don't know what is going to happen in this story until I write it. I know where I'm going (prompt) but everything that happens in the interum is simple madness directly from my brain. Enjoy!**

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><p>Ok, so, weird cape guy. He said something British and clichéd (hey! What is with all the British people! Are we being invaded? I mean, seriously!) like "Oh, I do say" or something.<p>

Then all three of them started to talk at once. I tried for Heather's hand again – not because I was scared or trying to pull something (well, I was, but you know what I mean) – but because I wanted to rescue her or something. No, really, I had an entire plan worked out. I can't remember it now, because other stuff started happening.

Well, the British man with the beard tries to get control of the situation. He starts shouting about how he's got guns pointing at the rest of the room, and if we don't obey him he'll start shooting. Actually he really did say "I am the Master (yeah, another capital letter word) and you will obey me!" so I think I'll call him the Master from now on, since writing "that British man with the beard" is making my hand tired.

But then the Doctor interrupts him. The man does like to do that. He said "Oh, come off it! Three might not recognise those guns and those androids, but _I_ certainly do. You've been off to Sattelite Five, haven't you?"

The Master looked smug. "But of course. I've been cleaning up your messes. Best of all, none of these are actually lethal." I tried for Heather's hand again – if the guns aren't lethal, that means there's nothing stopping us from leaving! – but she slaps my hand away.

I think she's playing hard to get.

So, the Master points at one of his robot cosplayers and says "Hit him with the teleport gun."

But then, the cape guy, whom everyone had forgotten about, holds up a series of machine guts and dangling wires. "Oh, do you happen to mean this teleport gun?"

That made the Master mad. He points at a random cosplayer and roars "Shoot him!"

Well, the cosplayer says something like "Prepare for defabrication" and fires.

And…

Oh. My. God.


End file.
